A Promise
by Scribe for Christ
Summary: "Love is patient; love is kind..." But John and Mary Watson have some serious martial issues to work out. So love might not be enough. A companion piece for "His Last Vow".
1. December 25, 2014 (Part 1)

**Title:** A Promise

**Chapter:** 1/5

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Discussion of difficult topics such as shooting someone. lying, and historical drug use, minor alcohol consumption, discussions of pregnancy, discussion of an affair

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of _Sherlock_, especially "His Last Vow"

**Summary**: "Love is patient; love is kind..." But John and Mary Watson have some serious martial issues to work out. So love might not be enough. A companion piece to "Baby Makes Three".

**Author's Note**: This is not quite what I envisioned writing next; it is not a direct sequel to "Baby Makes Three" but rather a prequel or a compliment. I always said I would never write anything to go with "His Last Vow" since everyone seemed to be working on missing scenes and one-shots that take place within the episode. But this story had been developing in my mind for some time and then suddenly begged to be written. I am afraid there is quite too much internal monologue in this tale. It's rather heavy in parts. I tried to lighten the mood with a bit of humor now and then, but I'm not sure how effective it is. But I wanted to post it anyway in hopes it would help someone else work through John and Mary's issues in "His Last Vow" just like it did for me.

This is just my interpretation of events; everyone is entitled to their own opinion. Please feel welcome to leave me constructive criticism and reviews. I would like to know what you think. The characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of course, and Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss who have taken them into the 21st century. All dialogue from "His Last Vow" constructed with the help of the wonderful Ariane DeVere who has provided us with transcripts for all the episodes.

And as always this story is written for the Lord Jesus Christ who shapes my thoughts as I write and gives me the time and ability to do so.

* * *

_Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails._

1 Corinthians 13:4-8a (NIV)

* * *

"Seriously? Months of silence and we're gonna do this...now?

Mary Watson stared in disbelief. She felt as if she had been slapped. She might as well have been. He had the audacity to ask her if she was doing okay after months of silence. Then he dared bring forth the very thing that was driving them apart.

**A.G.R.A.**

The letters written in black marker glistened off the drive in the afternoon light. A line from Hamlet's infamous soliloquy drifted through her mind.

"_Be all my sins remember'd_..."

The initials stared back at her from the drive as an accusation. It was her, her former self, her true name, her ruined past, returning to haunt her. Once, she thought she could leave it behind, burying it with poor little still-born Mary Morstan in the graveyard in Chiswick. But it had all been a lie. Her past was always with her, no matter how genuinely she desired to escape it. It would return, sometimes in a whisper or sometimes - like the past six months – with a mighty roar.

Mary swallowed.

Was she ready for this? Emotionally and physically, could she handle the torment she was about to endure? Six months ago, that night in Baker Street, she was able to conceal her emotions. But now - eight months pregnant - she doubted she would remain so distant and composed.

Despite her initial anger and fear, deep down, she had longed for this moment. The man she loved, the man she had severely wronged, was ready to talk with her. And, finally, her judgment had come. She knew John Watson too well. This betrayal had deeply wounded him, perhaps too deeply to ever be mended. There would be finality to these proceedings, but she expected not be comforted at the end of them. At least her mind would be somewhat eased by the closure.

Some movement from John brought her around. Mary swallowed hard again to moisten her mouth.

"So, have you read it?"

She had to know. She had to grasp for one last glimmer of hope. But her judge seemed reluctant to give her even that.

He motioned in front of him, adding, shakily at first but finishing quite confidently, "Would you come here a moment?"

Terror seized her. She shook her head.

"No. Tell me. Have you?"

"Just ..."

Mary saw a flash of humanity in her judge. He seemed as frustrated as she had been at the onset of the conversation; but he too reined in his emotions.

"...come here," he finished calmly.

Mary frowned, reluctant to play along with the proceedings. She hesitated a moment longer before tossing away the warm blanket that provided her with at least something of comfort and starting to rise. Her newly acquired center of gravity made things difficult, but she adjusted and rose, pressing a hand against her swollen belly. John moved to help her, but she refused.

"No, I'm fine."

If she had carried this child alone for nearly six months and was about to undergo righteous judgment from his or her father, she was at least going to be permitted the only independence she barely deserved - the ability to walk on her own two feet.

She came to stand before him tentatively, realising this was the last judgment she would face. The others who knew her black and numerous sins had already given their verdict.

Despite nearly killing one of her boys, Mrs. Hudson had coddled her affectionately. "We all have a past, dear," the woman who used to run a drug cartel with her husband - until said husband blew someone's brains out - had comforted.

After reassuring himself through threats and intimidation of her loyalty and love for John Watson, and by default Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes had offered her protection. "As much as is in my ability to give," the British Government itself had offered. "But even the 'Powers that Be' have their limitations."

And Sherlock Holmes had forgiven her long before he had painstakingly worked out the details surrounding her former career and special abilities. He understood. "You saved my life," he had said of her hasty but gross miscalculation that night in Magnussen's office. But, still, she shut her eyes against the memory of the blood - the blood slowly pooling on the front of his shirt moments after she had pulled the trigger.

This was her last judgment; but that in no way minimized its importance. In fact, this was the only judgment that mattered. This was the judgment from the man she loved, her husband and the father of her child. The man she had given her heart to do with it what he willed – to cherish it or to break it. He had every right to despise her. Deep down in her soul, Mary hoped he truly did. What she had done to him - and to Sherlock - was unforgivable. She understood the weight of her sins now, and she had repented of them.

She was still serving her penance.

But her judgment was still due.

She waited quietly, with downcast eyes and a downcast soul.

Whatever he had to say to her, she would face it bravely.

She only prayed her sentence would be exactly what she deserved.

Then, finally, her judge spoke.


	2. September 2014

**Title:** A Promise

**Chapter:** 2/5

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Discussion of difficult topics such as shooting someone. lying, and historical drug use, minor alcohol consumption, discussions of pregnancy, discussion of an affair

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of _Sherlock_, especially "His Last Vow"

**Summary**: "Love is patient; love is kind..." But John and Mary Watson have some serious martial issues to work out. So love might not be enough. A companion piece to "Baby Makes Three" and "His Last Vow".

**Author's Note**: One of the things I wanted to explore in this story was if John and Mary would have turned to spiritual help during this extremely taxing time in their marriage. I apologize if anyone is offended by talking about the Christian faith, but it was a theme I wanted to explore since I am a Christ follower.

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable. _

C.S. Lewis,_ The Four Loves_

* * *

She should have been happy. Honestly, this moment should have been exhilarating. Even her best attempts to be fell flat though. She just was not happy, and it took every ounce of her will-power to keep up the charade that she was.

"There's the heartbeat," Janice indicated, tapping the screen slightly with her knuckle of the free hand. "See it?"

Mary turned her head slightly to get a better view of the monitor. Even though the image seemed a bit grainy, Mary could still see the outline. It was very obvious, the rhythmic fluttering of a tiny heart.

"Your baby has a strong heart," Janice pronounced when she concluded her checks and smiled. Mary attempted to return it, but her heart was just not in it.

"Is something wrong, Mrs. Watson?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine," she lied flatly.

"Wishing your husband could be here?"

_More than you know..._

"We'll try to schedule your next scan for an afternoon. Maybe he'll be able to get away. What a busy doctor he must be."

"Yeah," Mary half-heartedly agreed.

Janice adjusted the settings as she moved the cool paddle across Mary's exposed belly. "Are you sure you don't want me to tell you the sex?"

"No," Mary said quickly. Perhaps a bit too quickly; Janice grimaced. Mary immediately attempted to retain her charade. "Oh, are those fingers?" she asked, turning her full attention to the screen. Janice was only willing to oblige her curiosity.

Mary Watson left twenty minutes later with another appointment and a few sonogram photographs in her bag and a heaviness in her heart. She stepped out into a dreary, autumn London morning that reflected her mood perfectly. It was September – three months since the domestic in Baker Street – and John still had made no attempt to talk to her about that night.

She supposed it served her right. She was the former trained intelligence agent who shot his best friend and continued to lie to him even after their marriage and her pregnancy. She deserved the anger and mistrust directed towards her. That still did not ease her heartache though.

He should have been there today. He would have wanted to be. The child was as much his as it was hers. She retained a small glimmer of hope that he had been thinking about her today. Sherlock must have told him. Unfortunately, her youthful optimism was starting to wear-thin as September was rapidly progressing into October. And he still had not talked to her about that night.

One choice had been all she needed to make. One choice to ensure the lives of the man she loved and her precious unborn child would be safe. She had never envisioned that night the choice she would be making would not be deciding whether or not Magnussen should continue to live. Instead, she was deciding how to best escape the corner in which she had become trapped. She had chosen poorly.

Mary had been almost as surprised as Sherlock had been when he stumbled upon her that night; but she did a better job at keeping it hidden.

"Is John with you?" she had instantly queried, her mind racing to do damage control.

Gobsmacked, Sherlock had been too slow in answering.

"Is John here?" she had asserted again.

She had known the answer though. Rapidly, she had concluded that John was with Janine. Therefore, she only had moments to act.

"He-he's downstairs."

"So, what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen had spoken up from behind her upon Sherlock's pronouncement, making the predicament quite clear.

It had been a perplexing quandary, one that she had not been prepared to face. Sherlock could not be allowed to leave without being in her strictest confidence. John could not be allowed to find her here. This scene could not play out here in Magnussen's office. Already the vile man had appeared to be reaching for something - his phone more than likely. If she had allowed things to play out naturally, Magnussen would have had her husband arrested for burglary and possible assault, and her ignoble past would have been exposed. She had no choice but to act on her own accord.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help," Sherlock had offered as he attempted to step forward. He might have been moving forward to reassure her; but Mary had read his intention otherwise. Presumably, he was going to take the gun from her; he was going to stop her and make her comply - to solve the problem on his terms. She had refused to handle things his way though. She had to figure out a solution that kept everything together until she could work out the best course of action. Above all, John could not find out about her, about A.G.R.A., about her past. Thus, hastily, she had chosen to employ what she considered her best asset.

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

The shock-value of her threat and the gun-barrel aiming at his chest were lost to him.

"No, Mrs. Watson. You won't."

So confident, so smug in his assessment of her psychology, so sure of himself. Mary had steeled herself as she assessed her position.

_1.8 meters. 60-70 odd kilos. A considerable amount of that weight muscle. Incredible agility. Reflexes like a cat._

Mary had known she stood no chance overpowering Sherlock Holmes. But she needed to keep him silent to buy herself more time. In that split second, she had felt trapped and, as her training dictated, reacted rashly.

Seconds after the pop, she had been unsure if she had actually pulled the trigger. Sherlock's expression had immediately confirmed otherwise. Then suddenly the white of his shirt had begun to stain crimson - a small bullet-shaped hole in the right upper quadrant of his abdomen - and Mary Watson felt the horror of what she had done.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly I am," she said, not without a hint of tearful regret.

The deed had been done though; there was no choice but to follow it through. It felt like an eternity until he hit the floor, him presumably unconscious, his face waxy and ashen. Mary had instantly stunned Magnussen with a powerful blow and called an ambulance.

She thought she had been cautious, aiming pointedly for Sherlock's liver. There was a ninety-two percent survival rate for shots to the liver*.

That was if the bullet did not nick the inferior vena cava.

Which it did.

And that was if the shooting victim was of a solid mental state to fight for life.

Which he was not. She had just betrayed his trust, after all.

When John called her later from the hospital, Mary realised the depth of her miscalculation. He had been talking very fast, she only catching snippets of his logic, but it was enough to cause her to sink helplessly to the titled bathroom floor.

Massive blood loss.

Cardiac arrest.

Flatline.

Restart his heart.

Mary had trouble keeping her voice calm and steady, but luckily John Watson had not been in a state to recognize her own symptoms of guilt. She had never meant to kill Sherlock. Only silence him for the time being. Everything had gone horribly wrong.

John would not let her come to the hospital until there was some more definite news on Sherlock's condition. So that night had stretched out before her like a dry and weary land with no water in sight. She had felt ill as well, though she was unsure if it was pregnancy-related or her own insurmountable guilt. John had called sometime before the sun rose. Sherlock's pulse and vitals had stabilized. But he was not out of danger yet.

Now, knowing it was inevitable to go to the hospital, Mary had dressed. She had no plan. She had only wanted to assess the situation before deciding the best course of action. When she arrived, John had met her with the glorious, yet devastating, news.

"His first word when he woke up?"

She had shrugged as naturally as possible.

"Mary."

He had remembered.

Mary Watson knew her life was never going to be the same.

She had attempted to utilise her former manipulative techniques to keep Sherlock quiet for just a little while longer. But the consulting detective had always had a mind of his own. She should have foreseen he would never intentionally keep something from John ever again, not after fallout of his unexpected return. She should have also anticipated that Sherlock would have offered his services; she was a problem which needed to be solved. Of course, solving her case meant John must know it.

And know he did.

Mary Watson had been devastated that night. She had been ravaged. Her soul had been crushed. Her hopes dashed. Yet, she still could not bring herself to cry even weeks afterward. She kept a tight rein on her emotions.

"People don't need to be lied to," Sherlock had observed a couple days after the interview in Baker Street as she sat with him in the hospital.

"Not even if it protects them?" Mary had voiced quietly and thoughtfully.

Sherlock had considered her words for a moment, no doubt weighing them against his own experience. "No," he had finally decided. "Not even then."

And ever since Mary had been attempting to put right what she had grievously done wrong.

She did not begin her penance looking for redemption. But as John grew increasingly distant and visits to the hospital were daily reminders of the suffering she had needlessly inflicted, she started to long for forgiveness.

Mary felt somehow her view of morality had been skewed. Perhaps all those years of distinguishing right from wrong on her own terms had coloured the way she dealt with the world presently. In those days, survival had been her only prerogative. Now, though, she had no need to survive; she could live. Unfortunately, she had failed to acclimate to this different lifestyle.

An unanticipated shower forced Mary Watson to take refuge in the last place she expected to find herself. Reverently, she entered the church, proceeding to take a seat in the back of a nonexistent congregation. No one seemed to mind her presence. There were only a well-dressed gentleman and elderly woman, both of whom seemed to be doing business with God, and a fellow whom she assumed had to be the custodian who moved around the sanctuary.

For several minutes she felt uncomfortable. She had not thought about religion or God in earnest in a very long time. It had been even longer since she had been inside a church. Her mother - God rest her soul - had attempted to instill lessons from the good Book in her. But with her death came an end to that tutelage.

The atmosphere inside the church felt so tranquil and holy that her ugly, stained soul could not possibly have no place here. The roar of rain on the roof only increased though, until Mary felt it was best to put on pretense and give the appearance of a woman in prayer.

Not that she even deserved to feign communication with the God of the Universe, if He was really who people claimed He was. But as she sat on the hard-backed pew and considered, she began to wonder.

Five years before, she had acquired the name "Mary Morstan" from the graveyard in Chiswick. A.G.R.A. had ceased to exist. She had embraced her new life wholeheartedly. She pursued her dream profession. She lived the settled life for which she had always longed. She met and fell in love with a wonderful man. And now she was months away from having her first child. It seemed far too idyllic. Perhaps that was how she had destroyed it all with one little bullet...why she was willing to use one little bullet to preserve one of the most precious seasons of her life...

The past five years had been an attempt to atone for her sins, but she had not done anything to assuage that debt. In fact, she had committed one to continue presently atoning for them. Was her current predicament judgment? Or a grave reminder that she did not have to remain unchanged? Perhaps, all along, she had been pursuing atonement through the wrong channels...

She did not know how to pray, or if it would do her any good; but anything seemed worth a try. She prayed clumsily. She was crude and unpolished, but she was honest. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, this seemingly distant God felt very real. All she had ever wanted since leaving her life of moral ambiguity was to find redemption and forgiveness. Even, now, she desired rest for her weary soul.

"'Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest**,'" was a verse she had heard somewhere in her travels. It seemed aptly applicable now.

When she finished, her eyes were wet with unshed tears but her heart felt much lighter than it had been in months. She still was not certain what she believed about God; nevertheless, she felt He was worth further her further consideration. She was alone now, except for the custodian who still piddled about making the sanctuary warm and inviting.

"May the Lord bless you, ma'am," he offered to her as she exited, causing Mary to smile softly. She was sure He already had.

* * *

Mary arrived to visit her patient just in time for Countdown. The program was blaring from the telly, and she could hear its opening cacophony before she even opened the door.

"Five days," Sherlock greeted her with little ceremony from his supine position on the bed. "Five days in a row I've watched this program. And not once has anyone commented on the fact that this woman is clearly having an affair."

"Well, hello, to you too, Sherlock."

"Look at her," Sherlock commanded with a grandiose wave towards the television set mounted sleekly on the wall. "There are at least seven visual cues that indicate she's suffering from repressed sexual urges and is eying that unfortunate fellow for her next bedmate. She talks superfluously about her husband, her kids, her dog; but she's obviously looking for a bit of spice in her life. On more than one occasion, she's mentioned another male by the name of Gary who is of no evident relation to her. And she's admitted to having more men than women in her contacts. I could go on –"

"Oh, please do," Mary sniggered.

Sherlock cast her a penetrating look, evidently assessing whether or not she was truly mocking him; but he became distracted.

"May I see them?"

"See what?" Mary slipped out of her coat, folding it over the back of the visitor's chair. From the appearance of the burgundy dressing gown which Sherlock currently found himself wrapped in, the presence of a tin filled with baked goods, and bag full of woolen footies propped up at the bottom of the bed, she assumed John had been by that morning with Mrs. Hudson in tow. If nothing else could be said of Mrs. Hudson, she could never be faulted for not showering her boys with extravagant affection. Mary was sure if her baby had her as his or her honorary grandmother, the child would want for nothing.

"You've been to have another scan today," Sherlock clarified, winkling his nose. "You smell like gel. It's appalling."

"You always know how to compliment a woman."

He huffed and held out his expectant palm impatiently. "Pictures. I know you bought them."

Mary sighed as she opened her purse and riffled through its contents. She handed them over reluctantly and excused herself to use the loo. When she returned, Countdown was still blaring in the background, but Sherlock was far more focused on the grainy sonograms.

"So, Doctor Holmes...satisfied?" she asked.

Sherlock held one of the pictures at arm's length and squinted. "It's a boy," he finally pronounced, stacking the photographs together and lying them neatly on the bed.

Mary laughed incredulously, one hand moving protectively to her swollen belly as she took a seat. "You can't possibly tell that from those images."

"If I'm not mistaken, technicians determine a child's sex regularly using the same method."

"I told her not to look."

"Why?"

"You know why."

He grew quiet for a moment, and Mary straightened her spine. She had been careful not to let her emotional state over the past few months be so painstakingly apparent to him. That sentiment was easier kept in thought than in action; he saw everything. Thankfully, he never pitied her or condemned her. Instead, she was sure he felt with her; and here Mary had learned John's assessment of Sherlock Holmes as an emotionless machine had been wrongly applied.

"My parents have invited you for Christmas," Sherlock suddenly announced. Mary glanced up from stroking circles over her stomach, a new past-time when she grew thoughtful.

"They what?" she questioned, perplexed.

"John was here when my parents came to visit," he explained.

"You have parents?" she quipped.

"Yes. I know, hard to believe. I have to even remind myself of it occasionally," he groaned dramatically. "They want you to come for Christmas at our family cottage. I should be out of this wretched place by then, and they apparently want us to celebrate my miraculous recovery."

He paused. "Will you come?"

Mary swallowed. "Will John be there?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

Earlier this morning, Mary might have considered refusing such an outing which was an apparent attempt to throw her and John together. After her prayer in the church though, she knew avoiding the inevitable only did more damage. It might not be what she desired; and it might not end well; but things would work their way out in the end. She just had to keep moving forward.

"Then, yes, I'll come," Mary agreed.

"Siger."

"I'm sorry?" The train of conversation had apparently shifted.

"Siger," he repeated. "It means 'victory army'. It's father's name, and an excellent name for a boy."

"Sherlock...you're just guessing."

"I never guess," he said, affronted. Now, it was Mary's turn to give a pointed look.

"I still think it's a boy," he asserted, restlessly throwing off his covers and sitting up against his pillows. "The fridge. Look in and hand me a carton."

Mary leaned over, opening the small miniature fridge to find several cartons of ice cream. "Double chocolate? Vanilla bean? Are you sure you should be eating this?" she asked as she passed over a quart of double chocolate to him. He promptly retrieved spoons from a nearby bag and attempted to trade Mary a spoon for the carton.

"Yes, and so should you," he encouraged, prying off the top of the tub. "This is the fastest way to obtain the weight needed to leave this miserable place, and you're eating for two."

"That's a misconception."

"Cravings?"

"I haven't had any."

"You look like you could use some," he supplied sheepishly.

Mary grinned. Now she had no choice but to give in to temptation. She reached over and retrieved a carton of double chocolate for herself, accepting Sherlock's proffered spoon. Propping her aching feet gingerly up against the hospital bed, Mary reclined in her chair to watch Countdown with the man she had nearly killed. It was a cliché saying, she knew, and oftentimes used irreverently, but it seemed pertinent.

Sometimes God moved in mysterious ways.

* * *

*Special thanks to Wellingtongoose's brilliant analysis "Why Mary did not intend to kill Sherlock" for research on the medical analysis of the shooting. A recommended read!

**Matthew 11:28


	3. Early December 2014

**Title:** A Promise

**Chapter:** 3/5

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Discussion of difficult topics such as shooting someone. lying, and historical drug use, minor alcohol consumption, discussions of pregnancy, discussion of an affair

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of _Sherlock_, especially "His Last Vow"

**Summary**: "Love is patient; love is kind..." But John and Mary Watson have some serious martial issues to work out. So love might not be enough. A companion piece to "Baby Makes Three" and "His Last Vow".

* * *

"_Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins_."

1 Peter 4:8 (NIV)

* * *

"Why do you do that?"

John muttered his accusation so low that Sherlock did not even hear him properly as Mrs. Hudson retreated wearily back downstairs. "What?" the consulting detective asked lackadaisically as he reclined lazily in his armchair. In his defense, the man had just been discharged from a nearly six-month hospital stay only an hour before and even returning to Baker Street had been extremely taxing. However, for some reason, seeing him sitting there in his inside-out t-shirt, checkered pajama bottoms, and dressing gown, wiggling his toes happily in his socks and treating life so nonchalantly as if no problems existed, pissed John Watson off.

"Why do you do that?" John repeated firmly with a jerk of his head in the direction of Mrs. Hudson's departure. "Why do you treat her like that?"

He paused but only for a beat.

"She's not your housekeeper," he chided. "She's your landlady. No, she isn't just that. She's your friend. She's your carer. She's someone who loves you. For God's sake, Sherlock, she's like your own mother."

John's voice had steadily built as he let his observations be heard.

"She's not your plaything to be exploited each time you feel like taking the piss out of somebody or need something to fuel your stupid transport. She's a person too. With feelings, Sherlock - though I doubt even understand what those are. You can't just make demands of her and expect her to bring you tea like it's her job. So why don't you –"

He was shouting now and realised it with a horror.

"I'm sorry," he immediately said. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm so sorry. Sherlock..."

He trailed off, covering his face with his hands and groaning into them. It took a few moments regain his composure. Sherlock had watched him steadily as he had vented with an expression of shock; but when John finally sat back in his chair, the detective's face was only lined with deep-felt concern.

_He probably thinks I've finally lost it._

John cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Sherlock gave a short nod and then clasp the arms of the chair firmly, drumming his fingers against them. John lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

"Have you talked with her?" Sherlock suddenly inquired apathetically as he picked a piece of lint from the cuff of his dressing gown.

It was John's turn to play ignorant.

"Who?"

Sherlock stopped only to give him a "Really, must we?" glare before continuing to remove the lint from sleeves of his gown.

John swallowed evenly. "No."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"You know," Sherlock considered for a moment, "really, I don't?"

John felt a deep-seeded rage boiling in his belly, the same rage that had fueled him that infamous night at Baker Street. He swallowed it down this time though and tread cautiously.

"You should," John said curtly.

"Because she shot me?" Sherlock suggested, his hand moving subconsciously to feel the tiny scar on his chest.

"That's good. There's one."

"And the other?"

John pressed his lips firmly together. He did not want to say it; it too should have been obvious. She had lied to him about who she was, what she had done, and for everything she had stood. That alone was reason enough never to trust her again.

"You should talk to her," Sherlock offered gently.

"So you've been telling me," John pointed out, feeling as if this was going to be a rehash of the same conversation that had played out repetitively since that night.

"And have you done it?" The detective seemed to be intentionally prodding John in the still festering wound, and the doctor did not appreciate the stimulation.

"No."

"Why?" he demanded yet again.

"You know why," John spat again, his voice picking up volume.

"And yet you refuse to do anything about it."

"What is there to do?" John asked, suppressing a half-laugh. "What's done is done."

"You'll be spending Christmas with her," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'm spending Christmas with your parents, Sherlock. And you. The only reason Mary is going to be there is because we're still a couple by name only." John sighed before continuing. "I don't see why she has to come though. They haven't even met her."

"She is staying here - at Baker Street - with me - in case you've forgotten," Sherlock admonished. "She is my guest and has nowhere else to go for Christmas.*"

"I didn't kick her out, Sherlock...if that's what you're trying to imply," John retorted. "She left."

"She needed someone to go with her to her appointments, checkups, ultrasounds. To help her manage things. And a man that isn't even the father of her child cannot be relegated to oversee all that. Therefore, Mrs. Hudson was more than obliging as a stand in."

"What? For me?" John snapped, a righteous anger building again. "Don't put this on me. Or I swear –"

"Oh?"

Sherlock seemed innocently oblivious to his anger – or perhaps acting to only infuriate him further.

"Arguing isn't going to get us anywhere," John admitted.

"I agree."

"Then...fine. Let's stop."

John grew quiet again. Sherlock sat calmly across from him, staring intently as if attempting to deduce all he could. John watched curiously as apparently the data returned inconclusive. Sherlock's expression flickered from intense concentration to one of extreme pity. In fact, John thought he looked almost sad, a good proper, heart-wrenching sad. Never had John seen such an intense emotion on his friend's face, and it made him extremely uncomfortable.

"Why? Why do you persist on getting me to talk to her?" John wanted to know. "She shot you."

"Yes."

"You almost died."

"Yes."

"Then why?"

"I think I have made my position quite clear, John. Mary is not the enemy here. The real enemy is Magneussen. Your efforts and energy for anger should have been concerted upon him, which they have not. And all the while he continues to prey upon the weak and defenseless, ruining lives, marriages, families, all in the name of power, corruption, and greed - all because Charles Augustus Magneussen wants a new little plaything to exploit to do his bidding. Because he can."

After such an extreme transition from sadness to anger, John began to wonder if Sherlock was truly alright. Perhaps it was the fact that he suddenly appeared completely exhausted; this could factor in to the manic mood swings.

Sherlock took a deep breath and steepled in fingers beneath his chin.

"'Love covers a multitude of sins'," he said after a few minutes time.

"I'm sorry?"

"You asked for a reason why you should talk to Mary. This is my advice. 'Love covers a multitude of sins'."

John blinked readily at the man's words, completely affronted.

"Oh, so now you're telling me I should talk to Mary because 'my love' should be enough to erase her past?" he spewed, attempting to keep from laughing. "What happened to 'all emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things'?"

"I never said what type of love stands opposed to logic, now did I?" Sherlock observed confidently.

John gave a small laugh of disbelief and actually began to relax. "Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?" he asked, not angrily, but wearily.

Sherlock smirked. "The point I'm trying to make, John, is this. You may not esteem Mary Watson with the same respect and blind trust that you once did. Nevertheless, she is still the woman you've chosen to be your wife. The woman you love. She is Mary Watson.

"'The two people I love and care about most in this world'?" Sherlock quoted quizzically and John felt a sudden urge to turn about and look towards the kitchen where he had said those words so many months ago. "I would hope that sentiment still remains fixed – unless it was not genuinely expressed in the first place. 'Love covers a multitude of sins'. I like to think 'it' covered mine. Or – at least – that's what I've been led to believe."

John laughed. The statement seemed ridiculous. But as Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow, he realised the detective was not joshing. Sherlock waved in his direction. "You're still here, aren't you?"

John's smile rapidly faded. He had forgiven Sherlock months ago. He had allowed Sherlock back into his life. He had put to rest the fact that Sherlock Holmes willfully led him to believe he committed suicide by toppling off a rooftop, left for two years, and then pranced right back into his life, eager for acceptance, dismissive of the undue pain his deception had caused. John sat comfortably in his chair unable to speak. Did Sherlock really think he had not – that he had never truly forgiven him? Surely not…

"Sherlock, I – "

"Yes, I know."

That seemed to be confirmation enough, but John still felt ashamed that he had even let his best friend carry the weight of doubt. Of course he had forgiven him.

"Then, how are Mary and I any different?" Sherlock voiced, seemingly reflecting John's own thoughts.

_The best and the wisest man I have ever known..._

John swallowed thickly and raised his head, meeting Sherlock's piercing gaze with one of equal intensity. It was Sherlock who broke first, heaving a heavy sigh. "You want to get me something for Christmas, John?" he ventured. "Talk to Mary. Or at least reasonably consider it."

John let out the air from his cheeks.

"Okay," he said, his mind rebelling against the need to concede; but his heart spoke differently.

Sherlock seemed pleased, or at least, content for the time being with this admission, and revealed an easy smile.

"So. 'Love covers a multitude of sins'?" John mused aloud. "Who said that? Aristotle?"

"Saint Peter, apparently," the detective confessed. "It's in the Bible."

"I didn't know you were religious."

"I'm not," Sherlock said quickly. "But you don't venture to the reaches of the earth without coming into contact with a smorgasbord of thoughts and ideas."

Sherlock had been tight-lipped on his time away from London. John had not been quite sure if it had something to do with his involvement with MI6 in dismantling Moriarty's network or Sherlock's own personal disdain for bringing up the chemical defect of the losing side. He did know, though, Sherlock had apparently spent quite some time in a Buddhist Monastery tucked away in the mountains somewhere.

"What do you think? About the Bible, I mean?" John ventured.

Sherlock gravely considered the question. "Inconclusive, for the time being" he finally admitted. "But I'll let you know when I reach a final decision."

"Yeah. Do."

Because if there was a God, He certainly did not feel very real right now.

Mrs. Hudson chose an opportune moment to return with the ill-gotten biscuits and tea. "Ah, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock announced cheerily, "just the woman I need."

Suddenly springing to his feet, Sherlock promptly snatched the tray from Mrs. Hudson's hands. Depositing it on the side table, he turned quickly to the central table and began fiddling with his IPod deck.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "Don't. You'll hurt yourself again."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Hudson," he exclaimed as loud, lively music began to play. "I've been cooped up in a dark, dank hospital for nearly six months. I need to 'get up and dance', as they say on the telly."

Sherlock nearly whisked Mrs. Hudson off her feet as they begun waltzing about the room at a breakneck pace, the woman fretting and protesting as she attempted to keep up with the consulting detective who seemed as agile and limber as ever. John chuckled from his chair as he watched the spectacle - a natural, easy chuckle, unlike anything he had done in months.

Sherlock was right. He still loved that woman. Reconciliation seemed the furthest thing from reality, though. It seemed impossible that his love could be enough to ensure it.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, __however improbable__, must be the truth._

Then maybe - just maybe - that love could enough. Maybe love could not necessarily cover sins - but instead help bring about healing from them. His logic was still quite jumbled in his brain, but this thread of thoughts was something to consider, at any rate.

Mrs. Hudson lamented the boxstep. Meanwhile, Sherlock attempted to quicken his pace as the tempo steadily increased. John leaned forward and snatched up a biscuit. Mrs. Hudson had gone through the trouble of bringing them. Best not let them go to waste.

* * *

* My sister and I have the headcanon that Mary came to stay at Baker Street while Sherlock was still at the hospital. I highly doubt Sherlock would have let Mary handle those months of pregnancy alone. To us, it seemed to make more sense based on the way things play out at Christmas.

Thanks for reading!


	4. December 25, 2014 (Part 2)

**Title:** A Promise

**Chapter:** 4/5

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Discussion of difficult topics such as shooting someone. lying, and historical drug use, minor alcohol consumption, discussions of pregnancy, discussion of an affair

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of _Sherlock_, especially "His Last Vow"

**Summary**: "Love is patient; love is kind..." But John and Mary Watson have some serious martial issues to work out. So love might not be enough. A companion piece to "Baby Makes Three" and "His Last Vow".

**Author's Note**: I apologize in advance for the length and significant amount of internal dialogue in this chapter. It asks tough questions; not all questions are completely answered - those are for future events to work out. But I hope it helps to give a fresh perspective. I definitely enjoyed writing it.

Enjoy!

* * *

"_Love sought is good, but giv'n unsought is better_."

William Shakespeare

* * *

John Watson was not sure if he had the correct address. The tiny cottage seemed far too ordinary to be in the possession of the Holmes family. He climbed out of his rental car, examining the little maroon house curiously. Everything seemed quiet inside and out. No doubt he had been the first to arrive; it was still early. That had been what he wanted. He had no way of anticipating the events of the day. Mary would be here, and he would have to talk to her. He needed time to prepare.

Pocketing his keys, John hurried to the door, lest Mr. and Mrs. Holmes think he was loitering in the drive. He raised his knuckles to knock, but the door unexpectedly flung open.

"Oh," Mr. Holmes greeted in a mixture of bemusement and surprise. "You're here." He opened the door a bit wider and called into the interior. "John's here!"

"Oh, let him in, Siger. Don't dawdle on the doorstep," Mrs. Holmes voiced drifted out.

Mr. Holmes stepped aside and bid John enter with a smile. John nodded appreciatively as he stepped into the warmth of the cottage. Mr. Holmes, wearing a bright red bowtie, showed John wear to hang his coat in the mud room while Mrs. Holmes appeared with a hug and kiss for him. "You're early," she exclaimed. "No one's here yet. Where's Martha?"

"I think you mean 'Mary', dear."

"Oh, yes," her momentary confusion followed by a frown disappearing. "Of course. Mary. Where is she, the dear thing? How many months along is she now?"

John pressed his shoulders back and cleared his throat. "She should be…eight months now."

It suddenly occurred to him he had not seen Mary in a few months and her figure must be drastically altered now by the child – his child – growing inside her.

"Eight months. Bless her heart. Is she having cravings?"

John really could not say. Thankfully, Mrs. Holmes continued without as much as a pause for an answer. "I had the most horrendous cravings with one of them. Sherlock, wasn't it?"

"I think so," Mr. Holmes agreed sagely.

"I ate the most ridiculous food combinations – things that would turn your stomach to even think about."

And John silently started to wonder if epigenetic influences in the womb could very well regulate one's food choices later in life.

Mrs. Holmes touched his hands. "Good Lord, you're freezing," she exclaimed. "Come in here and get warm. Siger was just about to start the fire. Weren't you, Siger?" Mrs. Holmes led John into the adjoining room while Mr. Holmes disappeared out the front door to apparently collect some firewood.

"No one's here yet," Mrs. Holmes stated again. "Sherlock and Mycie are on their way, though." John caught his breath as he attempted to repress a grin at Mycroft's family name. "Do you want something to drink? Of course, you do – after that long ride from London." Mrs. Holmes started down another hallway that must have led towards the kitchen. Suddenly, she ducked her head back in again.

"Where's Mary?"

John bit his lip as he considered what was best to say. "She was held up in London," he finally decided. "She's coming with Sherlock."

"Oh, that's nice." Mrs. Holmes disappeared into the kitchen, and John was allowed a bit of breathing room.

He made a circle for a moment around the sitting room, imagining this would be the backdrop for his conversation with Mary. Little over a month ago, he could not have imagined it. He would have not put himself in a position where he had to be under the same roof, let alone the same room, as her. But as weeks melted into months, he started to wonder if his righteous anger was worth it, or even justified. She had lied to him, yes. She had shot Sherlock and nearly killed him. Yes, again. But he had not exactly given her the opportunity to explain herself fully. Neither had he been the least bit understanding. He found it hard to grasp the concept of being sympathetic to her plight. Taking on an entirely new identity was a dangerous thing; but it would have been unnecessary in the first place if she had not fallen in with whatever agency that wanted to harness her skills.

_Intelligence agent_

_ A.G.R.A._

_ Liar._

She was all of those, or had been.

_His wife._

_ Mary Watson._

_ Mother of his child._

She was also all of those as well. The duality of her nature seemed perplexing. The fun-loving, sunny, compassionate Mary Morstan who had charmed him, made him laugh again, and brought him out of the one of the darkest periods of his life simply could not be the adrenaline seeking, high stakes, former secret agent who shot his best friend all in the name of protection – his protection. It seemed so wrong; but now…

John sighed as he looked at the Christmas lights draping the mantle, reminding him of the season for tidings of goodwill and joy, forgiveness and peace. The irony his and Mary's meeting would have been arranged for today. He would not have even been here if not for Sherlock.

The best and wisest man he had ever known, indeed.

Somehow John had managed to be present during one of the Holmes parents' visits. Then things had escalated very quickly without his consent. No one could ever say a Holmes was the least bit overbearing.

"You should come have Christmas dinner with us," Mrs. Holmes had offered. "You and your wife – what's her name again? Sherlock?"

"Mary," Sherlock answered when John remained silent.

"Yes, John and Mary, both of you, should come," she had encouraged pleasantly. "And bring the baby, of course."

John attempted an answer. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. Really. But I don't…"

"They don't have a baby…yet," Sherlock had cut across him in offering his clarification.

"I thought you said they were having a baby, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes chided.

"Not now. I meant in the new year."

John had found the conversation uncomfortable, considering his position with Mary these days.

"Well, now, no need to be smart, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes had reprimanded. Then she had turned graciously to John, placing a maternal hand warmly on his arm. "You really must. You and Mary would be a lovely addition to our celebrations."

John flashed a tight smile, resigned that this Christmas meeting was now inevitable.

"Don't you know having a baby typically takes nine months?" Sherlock had quipped, taking the tension away from John.

"Yes, I do, thank you," Mrs. Holmes huffed, affronted. "I had two of them myself. You'll do well to remember that."

"I'd rather not," Sherlock had replied drolly, a comment which quickly produced an expression of heated admonishment across Mrs. Holmes's features.

If looks could kill…

John raised his head as Mrs. Holmes entered with a glass in hand. "I've brought out the brandy just for you, dear," she informed him, pressing the glass into his hand. "I usually keep it hidden. Mycroft has a particular fondness for this particular vintage, and he has been known to overindulge. He mustn't, you know. His weight."

John masked a snigger by taking a rather large gulp from his glass. Mr. Holmes reentered with several logs in hand, and Mrs. Holmes immediately began to direct the placement of them accordingly. She was not rude or condescending but rather meticulous in her habits; and Mr. Holmes only seemed too happy to indulge. A marriage of minds, it seemed.

Had that been what he had seen in Mary?

_You did see that and you married me._

Had it been a marriage of minds, or rather of two broken people who had found each other in the most unlikely of circumstances and learned to trust one another? Well, that least one of them had learned how to trust.

He had been trying to come at this mess from Mary's perspective, but the same issue kept causing him to stumble. He had trouble envisioning the Mary who had held him and comforted him after the most vivid of PTSD-linked dreams would be willing to pull a gun and shoot someone in cold blood, walking over their cold corpse as if she had just given them the time of day. Then what was she? Had her lies been a heartfelt attempt to protect him from baggage that would do him more harm than good? Had her shooting of Sherlock been done with the best intentions, though it had been a gross miscalculation on her part? Could he accept that? Could he forgive her of those terrible mistakes she had committed out of fear in fullness of love? Could he live again, with her, knowing that there was a time in her life she had been less than honorable, and, though she now had left it behind for a life that included him and a baby, it would always be a part of who she was?

"The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life," she had said.

Could he live not knowing why?

"Everything about who I was is on there," she had said of the drive now sitting snugly in his pocket. "If you love me, don't read it in front of me."

"Why?" he had quipped none-to-kindly.

Her voice had broken.

"Because you won't love me when you've finished…"

_Because you won't love me when you've finished._

He had maliciously thought to himself that night, "What makes you think I love you now?" He knew he had been wrong though. He had loved her and would continue loving her. Sherlock had been right. He had chosen her. Mary Elizabeth Watson. The woman she was, the woman knew loved and married, and the woman she was that night at Baker Street were not three different people. They were one. Mary Elizabeth Watson.

"Mary, when I say you deserve, this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable," Sherlock had said of her during the wedding back in May. John was certain Sherlock had not known of Mary's identity during the wedding speech. The Best Man had complimented her then and continued to do so, even after her actions had sent him to the hospital for nearly six agonizing months. The best and wisest man John Watson knew was he not? Should that not have been prerequisite enough for him to trust him completely?

Upon further reflection, John realised how little he knew about Sherlock Holmes's past either. There had been the issue of drugs. That had only really been relevant when they had shared a flat. Sherlock had never elaborated; John had never asked. John did not even know if it had been a full addiction to the substance and the thrill it provided or a tantalizing experimentation when boredom became too much. All he cared about was now the drugs never happened again. There had been danger nights and the little incident in the drug den at the start of all this madness, but right now Sherlock Holmes's previous drug addiction was not an issue for him.

Neither was the previous life experiences that had shaped him into becoming the world's only consulting detective in the first place. He had not even known the Holmes parents were even alive until a year ago. Now, he stood in their sitting room, watching them lay the fireplace, surrounded by family memorabilia and sentiments that highlighted Mycroft's brilliant and dutiful progression to Oxford and into government service and Sherlock's unconventional one with a dash of violin, chemistry at Cambridge, and childhood adventures with a glossy red dog thrown in.

So why did Mary's former intelligence work continue to be an issue for him?

And why Sherlock's deception and lies following the infamous Reinchenbach fall continue to hold him back?

If he had always been apt accept those he cared about at their face value so readily, why could he not seem to apply it to his new predicament?

"I'll go put dinner on, then," Mrs. Holmes announced, pulling John from his heavy contemplation. "I've got to get the bird in the oven and the potatoes roasting or we'll never eat. And you know how cranky Mycie can get when he hasn't eaten."

John reminded himself to be kind. "Can I help, Mrs. Holmes?"

"No, John. Be a dear and sit in here with Siger. I can manage for now at least."

With a whirl of her shawl, she disappeared for the kitchen, and John was left with a very practical-looking Mr. Holmes. "That's my wife," he commented. "Always on the move."

John allowed himself to laugh this time. "Sounds like someone else I know."

"Shall we?" he motioned towards the couch. John readily complied. Mr. Holmes clasped his hands and crossed his hands with all the dignity of Mycroft but looked as languished as Sherlock did when pottering around Baker Street without a case. John sipped his brandy, awaiting a suitable conversation topic to arise. Mr. Holmes apparently thought it best to continue his train of thought. "She's really quite lovely. People think she's hasty, brash, even a little snarky – which she is sometimes," he whispered confidentially, "but she really only has one's best interests at heart."

Mr. Holmes struck John as a very private sort of man, a man who kept mostly to himself. So to hear him talk with such open admiration of his wife surprised him. John adjusted his position on the couch. "You two must get on then," John addressed Mr. Holmes earnestly.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Holmes agreed. "We've had our little spats over the years though. One time it got so bad she locked me out of the house for a week. I doubt Sherlock remembers that. He was only a baby then."

"A week?"

"Yes," Mr. Holmes nodded. "You know, I don't even remember what it was about. Probably something silly. Dora seems to take issue with the nonsensical from time to time. But I do remember how we made up."

John shifted uncomfortably. Had Sherlock told them? Did they know he and Mary were having martial issues? The conversation seemed to begin out of the blue and had taken an awkward turn. John was not sure if he wanted to hear the rest. Quickly, he finished the rest of his brandy.

"She loves music, my Dora. I think it's the art in her blood; her grandfather was a French painter. But, anyway, I went out and had music box made for her. It played our song – Bach's first cello suite; it's a song they played at the concert where I first met her. I had the music box custom made to play it and sent it to her. Three days later, I received a phone call from her, asking me to come home. Apparently, she had run out of milk in the ice box, and Mycroft could not be fully relied upon the watch Sherlock while she went to the market. It was only later she told me if had all been a ploy. The music box had really prompted the call. Personally, I think the inscription brought her around."

Now John was curious. "And what was the inscription?"

"'Love is patient'."

John blinked, his chest tightening a bit.

Mr. Holmes continued. "'Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.'"

"We might have had our differences," he concluded. "But I still loved her. And she still loved me. Nothing could take that away from us. I just think – from time to time – we needed to be reminded of it."

John nodded knowingly, his breathing coming easier now. "Those were…good words," he remarked.

"I came across that one day in reading and stored it away," Mr. Holmes explained, tapping the side of his head. "I thought I may need it one day to get back in Dora's good graces. I was right."

John chuckled, actually amused.

"Siger, you aren't telling one of your insect stories again, are you?" Mrs. Holmes suddenly called from the kitchen. "The last one about the pin worms had Reverend Foundry squirming the rest of the evening; I'm sure he received a proper chaffing. No need to traumatize John on the first visit."

"First visit?" John questioned, turning to Mr. Holmes.

"My wife has taken it into her head to attempt to adopt your child as her grandchild. She isn't getting any younger. We've given up hope on Mycroft, and honestly marriage and Sherlock seem the antithesis of one another. So unless we adopt one…"

"I see," John nodded thoughtfully with a rueful smile.

Mr. Holmes leaned a bit closer. "I suggest you ward her off while you still have a chance," he advised. "Else, you'll never have a moment's peace. She's bound to be the overindulgent type."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

Mr. Holmes rose, and John followed suit. "Would you mind if I went for a walk?" John asked. "I could use a bit of fresh air and your property looks wonderful."

"Be my guest."

John excused himself and exited through the backdoor into the cool morning air. He started out determinedly; his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his left hand rolling about the pin drive between his fingers. He knew what he must do now. It had been apparent to him all along, but he just could not put it into words. Mr. Holmes had helped with that. Now, he only needed to be certain what he was going to say to Mary.

He had to prepare the right words.

He loved her. And though he still did not know how to go about trusting her again or understanding her actions completely, he knew he needed to make amends.

He had to start making steps in the right directions to repair the relationships he had unforgivably abused.

He laughed to himself, the ridiculous coincidences in his interview with the Holmes parents too glaring to be planned.

He supposed that God had a sense of humor.

And He sometimes moved in mysterious ways.


	5. December 25, 2014 (Part 3)

**Title:** A Promise

**Chapter:** 5/5

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Discussion of difficult topics such as shooting someone. lying, and historical drug use, minor alcohol consumption, discussions of pregnancy, discussion of an affair

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of _Sherlock_, especially "His Last Vow"

**Summary**: "Love is patient; love is kind..." But John and Mary Watson have some serious martial issues to work out. So love might not be enough. A companion piece to "Baby Makes Three" and "His Last Vow".

* * *

_"Because love, it's not an emotion. Love is a promise."_

Steven Moffat_, Doctor Who: Death in Heaven_

"_There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love.__We love because He first loved us."_

1 John 4:18-19 (NIV)

* * *

Her judge spoke.

Mary felt a thrill move through her to finally hear him speaking to her again, even if it was to issue her condemnation.

"I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you."

His words were low, his voice tight. As he took in a deep breath, Mary dared to lift her eyes to catch his expression. It was not cold or angry as she expected; but it was still tense and neutral. Every word looked as if it pained him to say it.

"These are prepared words, Mary," he told her.

She grimaced, each passing moment growing more excruciating. Why did he not just say it? She could tell he was fighting against some inner turmoil; but beyond this she could read his intentions.

John ducked his head for a moment, taking another breath and then looking up at her.

"I've chosen these words with care."

"Okay." Mary wanted to scream. Or cry. Or perhaps both. She felt he was leading her on, intentionally putting her through misery. It was agonizing, but she held her ground.

John cleared his throat and looked away again, toying with the pin drive between his fingers almost like he was toying with her heart. Then he glanced up at her again, this time meeting her eyes and holding her gaze earnestly.

"The problems of your past," he pronounced quietly, "are your business.

"The problems of your future – "

There was an extended pause.

" – are my privilege."

Mary trembled, unable to comprehend what was being said to her. Her head spun, disbelieving every single syllable; but her heart told her otherwise. Emotion flooded her features. Her imbalanced hormones were unable to keep them in check this time.

John was still speaking. "It's all I have to say. It's all I need to know."

She watched as he examined the drive in his hands contemplatively and wondered what he was thinking. Her lips started to tremble as they sought to hold back the sob rising in her throat. She did not know what to do or what to say. Her entire body ached to explode in an outpouring of emotion; but she strove to fight it back, all the while trying to understand what had just happened. Had he really said the words she had longed to hear? Had the impossible suddenly became so intimately tangible?

John looked at her again, as if trying to gauge her reaction. Then he bent over the fireplace and tossed the drive into it. In a matter of seconds, her former life became charred in the flames. The drive was no more.

"No, I didn't read it," he admitted.

Then Mary broke, feeling so exposed, naked, vulnerable. She felt so overwhelmed.

"You don't even know my name," she gasped incredulously. It was all too surreal. He could not go on not knowing. Surely he could not love her not knowing what wicked things she had done? It seemed too fantastical to be true.

"Is 'Mary Watson' good enough for you?" he had quipped in reply instantly.

A sob escaped before she could control it. "Yes!" she cried. "Oh my God…"

_God, is this really happening? _

"… yes."

"Then it's good enough for me, too."

John gave her a small yet encouraging smile; and she melted under it.

She hastily stepped into his embrace. Her facade had crumbled under the weight of this redeeming grace, and she allowed herself to feel it. She relished the warmth and comfort of being in his arms again, her swollen stomach pressing into the small of his. His mercy had been too much. She clung to him as sobs convulsed her body.

"All this does not mean that I'm not still basically pissed off with you," he chided her gently.

Yes, this she could handle. "I know, I know," she reassured him. She knew very well things could not go back to the way they once had been.

"I am very pissed off, and it will come out now and then," he warned, still holding her tightly.

"I know, I know, I know." She knew her place now. She understood the weight of her sins. And she would endeavour every moment to deserve the grace she had been needlessly shone.

He pulled her back slowly to meet her gaze, giving her something of an amused grin.

"You can mow the sodding lawn from now on," he commanded good-naturedly.

"I do mow the lawn," Mary retorted, almost laughing herself.

"No, I do it loads," he argued.

"You really don't."

"I choose the baby's name," John offered.

"Not a chance," Mary asserted.

"Okay." She had won that verbal spar.

Mary allowed John to just hold her; she was unable to speak. "Thank you," she found herself whispering. "Thank you."

She had not intended John to hear it. No, her gratitude right now belonged to Someone greater.

"Thank You."

* * *

When he finally approached her, he was not the least bit surprised to find her initial reaction so cold and sarcastic. Neither did her reluctance to comply with his mode of conversation catch him off guard. No, what shook him was when she moved to get to her feet, and she struggled. He instantly moved to help, but she refused. Then the pangs of guilt twisted in his stomach. He should have been there for her. He remembered with surprising clarity every grainy scan Sherlock had shoved his way. He recalled every intentional mention by the infuriating patient to her advancing pregnancy. And then one time Sherlock had admitted to feeling baby kick. But John had not; and that shame seared in his chest. If one had not known better, one might have thought the child was Sherlock's, not John's. John deeply regretted his inexcusable behavior. He had abandoned her to face this alone.

He still had things to work out with her. He wanted to know why she kept her identity from him for so long. He definitely felt reluctant to even trust her again, his old issues surfacing. Nevertheless, his foremost priority was to make up for all the time he had lost. He was going to be a father. And if they were going to be parents, they were going to do things properly.

Together.

He grappled with his words initially. Though his walk had been long and labourious, the only words he had settled on consisted of two central phrases. Finally, he said them, seeing as their anticipation was causing her much undue pain.

"The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege."

He had struggled against his emotions, attempting to keep them controlled; but it was all in vain. It was not a violent outpouring of emotion like Mary's. As looked at her though, long and hard, he felt grateful that this was woman he had chosen. His Mary was strong and brave. Now, she was crying; and he had to steel himself and blink to hold back his own tears. He loved her. He honestly did. Nothing was going to change that. Then he pulled her into a loving embrace.

They talked, confirming future issues to address and muttering utter nonsense to one another, Mary occasionally incoherent through her tears. He held her until she calmed. Then, they lapsed into silence, rocking slowly side-to-side as they stood together, enjoying the sensation of their physical contact after all this time deprived of it.

"So you realise that, er, Sherlock got us out here to see his mum and dad for a reason?" Mary finally commented, her voice even once more.

John nearly laughed. Sherlock must have known his parents would be the key to this entire predicament. It had all been too coincidental. And he knew what the Holmes said about coincidences.

"His lovely mum and dad. A fine example of married life. I get that." He only hoped he and Mary could be half that one day.

Mary sagged against him a bit; but John continued sharing his mirth.

"That is the thing with Sherlock – it's always the unexpected."

As if it had been a stage direction in a play, his words became ironically exemplified. John panicked as Mary slumped against him. He laid her down as gingerly as possible in the armchair; but her weight had been unexpected. She was completely unconscious. He instantly began checking her airways, her pulse, the baby, terrified something had gone horribly wrong.

Suddenly, the door to the sitting room swung open.

"Don't drink Mary's tea," the rich baritone commanded.

Then Sherlock was gone as quickly as he came. John made sure Mary was comfortable before quickly following after him.

"Oh, or the punch," Sherlock added from the interior of the cottage, only serving to infuriate John. What was the man playing at? In the other sitting room closest to the kitchen, Mr. Holmes was on the couch completely motionless and seemingly tranquil. He had been drugged, John instantly knew.

They all had been drugged.

"Sherlock?" John called out. Then he continued on, hoping to get some answers. The consulting detective needed to have some cast iron explanations for pulling such idiotic stunt. If Mary…or the baby…

"Did you just drug my pregnant wife?" he shouted, storming into the kitchen to find Mrs. Holmes slumped comfortably in a chair and Mycroft fallen haplessly over the dinner table, having face planted atop his computer. If the situation had not been so dire, John might have laughed at the spectacle.

"Don't worry. Wiggins is an excellent chemist," Sherlock assured him. John repressed a sarcastic retort, uncertain whether or not to take comfort in the fact that a former druggie had just administered a potentially dangerous compound to his wife and unborn child. He glanced at Billy Wiggins inquisitively.

"I calculated your wife's dose meself," Wiggins assured him proudly. "Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on 'er."

Still, that was not the least bit comforting.

"He'll monitor their recovery," Sherlock confirmed as he sashayed his scarf around his neck as if preparing to step out into the cold. "It's more or less his day job."

John stared at him incredulously and then swore, demanding to know what was going on. This time he was not being left in the dark.

Sherlock paused as if uncertain how to proceed. Then very tentatively, he replied, though it seemed as if his mind was elsewhere.

"A deal with the devil."

That could only mean that things were about to take a drastic turn. Had this been the reason Sherlock had requested he bring along his gun? Did this have to do with Magnussen and the power he still potentially held over Mary? In that split second of silence, John had a chilling premonition.

Things could not go well.

And, for once, John Watson wished he had been very, very wrong.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I believe everyone knows what happens next.

That is the end, folks. Any further comments would be most welcome. I hope the ending was not a bit of a drop-off for you. It seemed the most appropriate place to end it.

Thank you SO much for reading and reviewing! I enjoy hearing feedback and that people are enjoying reading. It is definitely encouraging.

Now off to work on the next one!


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